


Misère Chess

by Letterblade



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: All Setup No Fucking, Aphrodisiacs, Bondage, Chess, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Games, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24209077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade/pseuds/Letterblade
Summary: Focus.Focus.He is Ferdinand von Aegir. He should be perfectly capable of beating this puffed-up spider at the game of nobles, no matter what’s swimming in his veins. No matter how much blood is draining south. To lose now would be simply—unthinkable.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 11
Kudos: 261
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Misère Chess

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme: prompter asked for pre-TS Ferdinand getting accidentally dosed with an aphrodisiac, Hubert challenging him for the antidote in a game of chess (since he'd previously claimed he could beat Lady Edelgard), and Ferdinand horny and humiliated but too proud to back down and trying to win at Hubert's mind games.
> 
> ALSO ALLY DREW AMAZING ART!!! Check it out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Fe3hSins/status/1271264972983742466)!

Hubert’s long, gloved fingers are laying out the pieces. They barely even click, not with their blood-red felt bottoms, but the soft thumps echo in Ferdinand’s ears along with his heartbeat. His fast-tripping heartbeat. Castle. Knight. Bishop. It seems to take forever. Ferdinand can’t stop replaying the last—ten minutes? It couldn’t possibly have been more? How long had the foul drink taken to kick in?

He’d been here to deliver class papers. Nothing more than that. It was the first time he’d been in the inner sanctum of Hubert’s morbid pretentions, and much was as he expected, but to his surprise, there had been a single cup of tea cooling untouched on the desk. “I see you are branching out to something more tolerable than that dreadful coffee,” he’d said, more than a little smug, and picked up the cup, curious about what brew Hubert would drink. Probably something cut-rate and foul. He hadn’t recognized it by the smell, so he drank—

“That’s,” Hubert had blurted, one visible eye widening, so soft that Ferdinand barely heard it over his puff and sip.

The brew was unexpectedly complex. Perhaps a bergamot blend he was unfamiliar with? A strangely astringent aftertaste—well, Hubert does have terrible taste. “What is the blend?” he asked, taking another sip to analyze it.

Hubert tapped one skeletal finger against his lips. “Can you not identify it? I had assumed a man such as you could spot bergamot a mile away.”

“Of _course_ I can scent the bergamot.” Ferdinand felt his brow burrow. “Rather second-rate bergamot at that. But there are other notes…angelica? What a tasteless combination.”

“It’s not angelica. Though I’m curious why you thought it might be.”

“The aftertaste. And…no, that is certainly not angelica. That brighter note.”

“Your palate is truly impressive,” Hubert said archly. “Perhaps you have a bright career ahead as Lady Edelgard’s taster.”

“Taster—” Ferdinand set the cup back in its saucer with a clink. “What are you implying, Hubert?”

“It is a custom blend. Though it seems I shall have to find a stronger flavor to disguise it. I could not taste the difference, but in this one thing, I cede to your greater experience with tea.” He inclined his head, somehow managing to make even that mocking. “Rest assured, it will not kill you, merely be unpleasant as it runs its course, and I have the antidote at hand.”

“ _Kill_ me?” He felt his heart trip faster in his chest. “Surely you are not brewing poisons in your dorm room, Hubert. I cannot imagine the knights would take very kindly to that.”

“The knights allow us to do as we like in our private space. Especially if one happens to be the retainer of the imperial heir.”

“Arrogant as always.” Ferdinand set the cup and saucer back on the desk, refusing to show fear. “The antidote, then?”

“I have it. I did not say I would give it to you.” Hubert rose from his desk chair, unfolding a little too close to Ferdinand for his taste—his blood buzzed in his veins. “You could merely go and let it run its course as you go about your day. It will no doubt be embarrassing, but I am sure the great dignity of House Aegir can withstand whatever humiliations it inflicts upon you in the eyes of all.”

Ferdinand felt his face heat, jerked his chin up. “I am perfectly capable of running to the bathroom, Hubert, if this is anything like von Riegan’s little pranks.”

“This,” Hubert drawled, “is a different beast entirely. At least you didn't drink the full dose—you _might_ still be capable of lucid speech even when it has you fully in its grip.”

Ferdinand felt his eyes widen, wavered in spite of himself. “And the _antidote_?”

“Is here. Though I think you ought to learn not to drink whatever a Vestra has lying about in their workroom. Let this be instructional. You may have the antidote—if you earn it.”

“How,” Ferdinand bit out. His heart was beating faster still. Heat crawling on his face. The poison, or had Hubert’s little intimidation routine actually gotten to him? He wasn’t sure.

“A game of chess. I remember you claiming once that you could beat Lady Edelgard handily if only she’d do you the honor of a game. I dabble myself, and I’m curious as to your prowess.”

“If you want to play chess with me, Hubert, you need only ask and I will prove my superiority. Surely if this drink is as debilitating as you claim, you would rather face me at my full prowess.”

That got him an arch of a shaved eyebrow. “Almost clever, von Aegir. But no. The antidote is the stakes if you win. That’s your only hope of getting it. No, I’m not going to tell you where it is, and some of these drawers have traps that _will_ kill you. As for your ante—well, let me say this. If you lose, you will get whatever you ask of me in that moment, on one condition.”

“What condition?”

Hubert opened one of his many drawers and pulled out—not another vial, as Ferdinand half-expected, but a pair of heavy manacles. It landed on the desk with a thump. “When your king falls, I’ll cuff you to the chair.”

“Ridiculous,” Ferdinand huffed, face heating. “If I may have whatever I ask, it will simply be my release.”

“Perhaps,” is all Hubert said, with that ghastly half-smile.

“For all I know, there is nothing in that tea, and this is merely some ploy to unsettle me.”

“Then wait. Perhaps five more minutes. This brew does take effect quite swiftly. If you feel no effect by then, I shall allow that you have a remarkable constitution, and you may take your leave.”

“I _may_ ,” Ferdinand said, perhaps more grumbly than his noble blood should allow, “take my leave regardless.”

Hubert flipped the sand timer on his desk over with a fingertip. A chess clock, in fact. Five minutes.

Ferdinand’s heart didn’t slow in all those five minutes. And true, the situation was alarming, especially with the manacles on the desk, but he’d faced live combat without faltering, endured hundreds of tests to his composure, and none of his usual tricks to calm himself were _working_. Perhaps—perhaps that was whatever poison he’d drunk. He felt stiflingly warm as well, face hot to the touch. And, undeniably, swelling in his trousers—well, one could never read too much into _that_ , it has not been too long since that awkward age when he got aroused at a stiff breeze.

His mouth was watering. That, more than anything, was what cut through his doubts. He had to lick his lips and swallow to keep from drooling like a dog. What could _possibly_ be causing that other than some unknown poison?

The timer chimed softly.

“So?” Hubert asked. “Are you leaving, or shall I lay out the board?”

And now—now there’s a row of white pawns swimming in front of him.

Focus. _Focus._ He is Ferdinand von Aegir. He should be perfectly capable of beating this puffed-up spider at the game of nobles, no matter what’s swimming in his veins. No matter how much blood is draining south.

Of _course_ Hubert plays black.

Their openings unfold: Ferdinand bold, Hubert cautious. Ferdinand is not fool enough to think the spider is not a cunning opponent, but it is not as if he is unpracticed. He must keep a close eye on his knights, his queen, mark the placement of his bishops, but he must not second-guess himself. A swift strike, before Hubert can line up some trap or ooze behind his lines.

There’s dry amusement in the spider’s face. “You do,” he says, fingertip circling the head of a pawn, “play much like Lady Edelgard.”

“I shall take that as a compliment,” Ferdinand says firmly, and advances.

In the following flurry, Ferdinand loses two pieces to Hubert’s one, and he’s starting to feel like his skin is _buzzing_. The room is overbright. The line of Hubert’s jaw gleams ghost-pale and he wants to—

“What,” he grits out. “What is this.”

“A simple ambush,” Hubert says, setting his captured white pawn down on its side with a heavy click.

“The _poison_ , you insufferable—”

“You haven’t figured it out?”

Ferdinand tightens his jaw, swallowing hard. He’s still salivating profusely. He loosens his cravat without thinking—it’s too tight, too warm, his skin is crawlingly aflame.

“Perhaps you’re having an atypical reaction,” Hubert says, in some tone Ferdinand quite decipher. “Please list the symptoms. If it’s unusual, perhaps we should call off the game and I can give you the antidote. To be on the safe side. Since you are one of my Lady’s citizens.”

Ferdinand flushes hard. He is far more than a _citizen_ —he is Ferdinand von Aegir, he is to be Prime Minister, and yet all that comes out when he opens his mouth is a rush of complaints. The heat. The drooling. The sensitivity to light. The odd sensations in his skin. His heartrate.

“And?” Hubert says.

“And—well, that is what is of note. Perhaps I am having some sort of allergi—”

Something slides over his aching-hard erection and his voice stutters to a halt.

“Reaction,” he finishes, and it comes out in a raw whimper, at least an octave higher than he would have liked. It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to grind up against—against the toe of Hubert’s _shoe._ His long leg under the table. Hubert is leaning back a little, a sharp smile half-glimpsed under the fall of his hair.

“Thank you for your assistance.” A slight increase of pressure. “It would seem to be working _exactly_ —” slide, grind, and Ferdinand makes some pleading moan he barely recognizes “—as intended. No need to suspend the game, then. You are perfectly safe.”

“Safe,” Ferdinand echoes, strangled.

“It should be close to its peak. The fact that you _can_ keep yourself from humping my foot like one of your ill-trained family hounds—well, you did not get a full dose. Regardless, you’ll be maddeningly, insatiably aroused for perhaps an hour. You’ll remain hard even through orgasm. Still sensitive, of course. And there’s a touch of muscle relaxant as well, to make it easier to accept penetration. It’s really quite a thrilling experience.”

“That’s—you—” Ferdinand feels like his thoughts are slipping away from him, wriggling like fish, and he grabs at the prickliest. “To what _end_? What use would you have for something like that?”

“Aside from the obvious boon to a partner’s satisfaction?” Hubert shrugs. “I’m sure you’re aware that one of the many valuable services the Vestras provide the crown is blackmail. Thus we have ways of manufacturing embarrassing incidents.”

Ferdinand feels rage crease his face even through the mind-numbing haze in his blood. “And to what end did you manufacture _this_ —?”

“Please believe it was a genuine accident. Even I did not believe you would be foolish enough to drink something in my room. From there, merely fun at your expense, Mr. von Aegir.” He cups a hand over his heart, a mockery of an apology. “Now.” He leans back to reach to the desk with one long arm. Drops the manacles onto the chess table with a clatter, next to the captured white pieces. “Will you run out the door, or will you play?”

Ferdinand stares at the manacles for a long, long while, face red, mind swimming.

“To be clear,” Hubert goes on, _almost_ kindly. “I said you play like Lady Edelgard. I _taught_ Lady Edelgard. She bests me perhaps one out of three. And she is far, far more practiced than you.”

“No,” Ferdinand blurts, muzzy. “I am as good as her. I must be.”

“She hasn’t fallen for that ambush since she was eleven.” Hubert laughs, ghastly. “If you choose not to run, you could do your pride a favor and forfeit the game. I could shackle you right now.”

Ferdinand feels his hands shake, his blood roar in his ears. He wants—he wants to fall upon the damn spider, he wants to rut against his _heel_ if that’s what it takes, he wants—

His room isn’t far. He could run off, foul his own sheets with endless self-love like he was fourteen again.

Gloved fingertips trace one cuff of the manacles.

He could be helpless and quivering—under _Hubert_ , of all people—and goddess help him, the thought is lighting up his whole body like a bonfire. Just one word—

No. No, he won’t merely forfeit. If he has even a chance of beating the spider, winning his freedom from this poison—

“Leave,” Hubert purrs, “forfeit, or make your play.”

Surprise him, he thinks dimly. Range up the side, break through where he’s rearranged for the ambush. The board seems miles away. Something tickles his chin— _fuck_ , he’s drooling, he’s actually drooling.

At least he hadn’t gone to class like this.

He swallows hard, tries not to whine.

Hubert lifts a hand, smudges up along the side of his chin, and that gloved fingertip comes away wet. “There you go,” he murmurs. “I could gag you if you’d prefer. A handkerchief, so you need not mess yourself.”

“Don’t you dare,” Ferdinand blurts, even as his pulse trips faster. To not even be able to talk back—to beg—he shakes himself, tries to pull himself into focus. “Would that not defeat your purpose, Hubert? To have me cuffed to your chair and begging for your ministrations?”

Hubert looks—almost impressed. Ferdinand rides his swell of pride, advances a bishop.

“As if hearing you whimper helplessly as I had my way with you would be any less delightful,” Hubert replies, and his castle slides over a few squares, menacing.

Ferdinand sways in his seat, flattened by a blood-rush of arousal, makes some hurried move to save his bishop.

“Or your muffled attempts to protest,” Hubert continues, and a knight jumps out of nowhere, takes his bishop. Perfectly trapped. Another white piece, dropped with a clack next to the manacles. “Or watching you beg desperately with only your body and your eyes.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ferdinand whispers, breath rattling in his throat.

“Your play,” Hubert says. “I’d imagine you’d not want to linger when you're in such a state.”

He’s trying to make him play recklessly, make a mistake. Ferdinand can _see_ it, clear as an incoming strike in battle. But his mind is sluggish. He doesn’t know how to dodge. His sense of tactics is scattering, his awareness of the board shattered by his awareness of Hubert’s hands, the thin line of his lips, his— _Seiros_ , his foot is still right there, he’s been grinding against him without even realizing it—

Ferdinand jams his own knuckles into his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut, and Hubert gives some wickled little roll of his ankle, and Ferdinand comes. Just like that. It’s lightning-sparks and mad heat, and it feels like everything and nothing at all, and he feels the wet heat spread in his trousers and almost sobs with shame.

His cock doesn’t flag. Still throbbing, painfully sensitive, against the sole of Hubert’s shoe.

“Your play,” Hubert says again, low and dangerous.

Ferdinand bites his knuckle so hard he almost draws blood, and reaches with his other hand, shaking, to make his move. Defense tighter on that side than he thought. He can barely pull together a plan. Take that exposed knight, perhaps?

His pieces fall like leaves.

He dodges one check, barely, as his come dries in his pants and he’s sucking his own fingers to keep from begging for Hubert’s cock in his mouth.

“Check,” Hubert says again, and Ferdinand’s stomach sinks. “And. Mate.”

He scans the board, muzzy, still frantic for some last move, some way out, but—but he barely has anything left—

Iron clinks, heavy, as Hubert picks up the manacles. He stands, foot finally lifting from Ferdinand’s cock, and the loss aches. He paces around behind him, and catches Ferdinand’s wrist to drag his hand out of his mouth and shackle it behind him. Then the other. The snaps of the lock sound deafening. Ferdinand can’t even muster the strength to resist. Chain run through the bars of the chair, and he rattles it dimly, sits there defeated. He’s dragging deep, panting breaths, as if getting enough air could somehow brace him for what’s coming.

There’s some sounds of rummaging, and Hubert comes back around.

Click: he topples Ferdinand’s king.

Click: he sets down another sand timer, larger, with _one hour_ marked along the base, and turns it over.

Click: he sets down a key—to the manacles, Ferdinand can only hope.

Click, click, click: things Ferdinand is far less familiar with, laid out on the parts of the chessboard bared by his defeat. A red-glazed porcelain rod, distinctly phallic, intimidatingly large. Small, rather alarming-looking pincers. A spiked wheel that makes his spine prickle with fear. A thin, whippy switch.

The handkerchief—a large one, more than enough to stuff his mouth full—doesn’t click, but sits just as menacing as the rest.

Hubert pulls the table to one side, giving him free access to Ferdinand’s helpless body, and looms over him, tall and dark and full of terrible promise.

“Now. As we wagered.” Hubert threads his hand through Ferdinand’s hair, tugging his head back to bare his throat, and Ferdinand whines, utterly undone. “You will get whatever you ask of me.”


End file.
